In each painting is a poem
In each poem is a painting
So the Chinese teach.
Where speak cummings, Frost, and Donne
But in Mondrian, Curry, Rembrandt?
O'Keeffe sings Dickinson once again
As if those attic dreams were never hidden.
Turn pages in the gallery
I lift my brush to paper
Heart beating India ink
Spilling onto the page.
Begin, it says:
Haiku
Couplet, Sonnet
Ode to Epic
Then the mind's shears trim the edges
Pare away the lies:
Epic, Ode, Couplet
Haiku, Word.
Sigh.
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